


The Burning

by trashcatpaige



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on the novel, Changeling Jim, Changelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Behavior, Fluff and Angst, Found Families, Gen, Jack-Jim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, So much trauma, Trauma, an excuse to write parental Blinky, and pain, half troll jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-07-12 11:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcatpaige/pseuds/trashcatpaige
Summary: Jim remembered fire.A violent blaze that overtook his home, snuffing out the life he knew. Glowing, golden eyes with slit pupils watching in the darkness; the stone-skinned monsters that stole everything from him.Barbara Lake died that night, and James Lake Jr. died with her.AU where Jim's father was a Changeling, so in order to hide his abominable mistake, the Order sets fire to his home, leaving Jim an orphan half-changling child... or an excuse to write a feral Jim after reading the book.





	1. There's a Boy in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I read the Trollhunters book while watching Wolf Children. I just loved Jack's character so much I needed to do an AU with a Jack-like Jim.
> 
> A big thanks to melancholic rowen from the the discord! You're so kind!

Jim remembered _ fire. _

A violent blaze that overtook his home, snuffing out the life he knew. Glowing, golden eyes with slit pupils watching in the darkness; the stone-skinned monsters that stole everything from him.

Jim could still smell the smoke, the melting plastic and chipping paint. He could still feel the heat of the inferno against his skin. The life he lived and the bright, flaming ball of agony stripping it away. It resonated in his mind, like a burning lullaby. His world ended in a sea of ash and carnage.

Barbara Lake died that night, and James Lake Jr. died with her.

The boy who had been Jim walked into the darkness of the forest and he never came back out.

* * *

There was speculation amongst the citizens of Arcadia, but no one was so bold as to speak their thoughts beyond hushed voices at dinner tables.

Some say James Lake came back from wherever he roamed to murder his ex-wife and son. There were talks of life insurance policies, back child support orders, and all the other reasons a deadbeat could have for arson. No one believed the fire was an accident, but there wasn't enough proof otherwise. The police searched for James Lake, but they never found him, nor any trace that he ever even existed at all.

That fact poured gasoline on the rumor mill. The more extreme theorists in town speculated that James had ties to the mafia or something of the sorts. Caught up in hush money that sent the wrong people to Barbara Lake's doorstep that night. There were people who pointed to a cult, reporting mysterious black figures circling the home before the fire. Figures with horned masks and fake bulbed eyes.

No one knew for sure, but the tales continued to be spun.

It didn't help that the Phantom of Arcadia Oaks started to appear around the same time.

It became an urban legend of sorts, as more and more people saw the creature over the years. Some said it was the ghost of James Lake Jr. and others believed it to be a monster. Accounts differed, but some details remained the same across the board. 

A metal mask with coke-bottle goggles. Rusted armor constructed from junk; a breastplate some said was made from a grill cover, but others claimed was constructed from a child’s baking set, with pans shaped like stars and horses. It had beaten up license plates down it’s outer thighs, old knee pads tied over black pants. Those who got close enough said that there was a collection of dented bottle caps studding it’s arms, clawed fingers poking out from beneath spiraled bracers. People said that it had a scarf made from torn animal skin, that it smelled of death and sewage and dirt.

There was no proof that the creature existed, as it was only ever seen by drunk teenagers at the lookout or mystery-hunting kids searching through the forest at midnight for a scare. No one brought a camera and cell phones didn’t cut it in the dead of night.

So people looked the other way, content with their little lives away from monsters, ghosts, and metal-clad kids. After all, it could never be true.

* * *

Jim had no concept of time after  _ The Burning.  _

He knew of seasons and hours and days, but he did not keep track of time the way humans did. California was temperate most of the year, so he need not base his habits on seasonal weather. 

Jim moved when he wanted to move. He recognized the summers, only from the children coming into the forest; setting off fireworks and starting bonfires. He hated the scent of smoke, the loudness of raucous music, and the disruption of his peace from human activities. 

During these times, he moved into the inner city. From the stinking alleyways to the sewers beneath the streets, Jim knew it all. His favorite spot was behind the hospital, not because it was a good source of food, but because the scent stirred something long lost to him. While the harsh smell of antiseptic and sickness would be haunting for many, it comforted Jim in an indescribable way. It reminded Jim of his mom, a time before  _ The Burning. _

Whenever Jim could, he returned to the forest. There was a rich source of wildlife and plants; from the fruit orchid that sat on the edge of Arcadia to the rabbit burrows on the fields. He spent his time under trees and in caves, harboring whatever goods he could get his hands on. 

For the most part, Jim avoided the drainage system under the bridge. 

It was rancid with sewage and it burned his nose, but other than that, there was a monster that lurked in the pipes. Jim saw the stone-skinned beast many times, from the higher drainage basins and nooks beneath the sullied greywater. It had burning red coals for eyes, and the sickly stink of rot hung over it in a cloud. It smelled like corpses and blood. 

He called it the Black One.

It reminded Jim of  _ The Burning. _ Of scorched hair and searing meat. The monster made Jim want to rip out his hair and rock himself until the terror went away.

Another thing that told him it was time to move, was the Light-Clad One. Jim often saw it wandering the forest around the canals, a monster, not unlike the Black One. It wore a suit of shining metal, lighting up the darkness of night. While it seemed bright and noble, like a knight from some long forgotten fairy-tale, Jim did not trust it.

Jim also wasn’t willing to test if the stone-skinned monsters’ sense of smell was as good as his, so he moved whenever he spotted one.

Jim would go anywhere and everywhere, as long as he didn’t stray too far from Arcadia. Something tethered him to the city and he felt that if he left, he’d lose whatever little remained of his scattered self.

He had been to the abandoned car factory at the edge of the gully, and the garbage dump bordered by a landfill. Jim had followed the rivers to the sunset on the peak, explored every cave on the outcropping of forest cliff, ventured underneath the town through a maze of waterways and sewage, and he’d ran through the wheat fields near the agricultural lands.

Jim had done it _ all, _ he had seen it  _ all.  _ From fishing, hunting, dumpster diving, spelunking, tree climbing, berry picking, and everything in between. 

Jim wasn’t human anymore, not in his eyes. He was a creature of the night, with scary claws and sharp teeth and horns and armor. Jim was far away from  _ their  _ simple world of bright lights and colors and sterile buildings. Sometimes he observed the humans from the treeline or atop roofs, never getting close to the fragile lives they lived.

Even though he banished himself from humanity, Jim couldn’t help but feel a bubble of jealousy when he people watched. When he caught sight of children holding their parents' hands or friends laughing after some inside joke, the longing boiled hot within his stomach. 

Those were the moments he was reminded of before  _ The Burning. _

Of his mom’s bright red hair and deep blue eyes, working late nights in her scrubs and falling asleep on the couch. The days Jim spent in the waiting room of the hospital when he couldn’t be left home alone. He recalled birthdays and warm beds and clean clothes. Memories of hugs and happiness, buried deep beneath the trauma of  _ The Burning. _

Jim stamped those thoughts out violently. When he found himself remembering too much, he threw himself onto his work. Anything to forget the  _ before  _ times. Jim hunted or added to his armor, he dunked himself in the freezing cold river or searched for a new territory he hadn’t explored yet. 

Jim never knew where he was going, only that it had to be far away from his blackened home and the humans that lived in the city. He didn’t stop and he never slowed. There were no conversations beyond the arguments in his head, and if he got lonely, he just ran until he was too tired to think anymore.

And Jim was content with his life. No one could possibly understand it but Jim, or at least that is what he told himself. 

So he continued with his erratic routines. Avoiding humanity and venturing around like a kid playing pretend. Jim was the hero of his own story, a boy on an adventure in the wilds of California. He was a wild beast, a myth, living the life any other kid could only dream of.

Until one day, when he spotted a stone-skinned monster carrying a satchel of books.


	2. Bookmarked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never really planned on continuing this past a character study of Jack from the novel, but gosh dang the plot bunnies have taken over! A big thanks to my co-conspirator Melancholic_Rowen, who periodically screams with me and gives me pretty art.
> 
> Speaking of art, the lovely Melancholic_Rowen has a reference pic for Jim at the end of this chapter! Enjoy!
> 
> Also, I have no idea why all my introductions start with Blinky pilfering books, but hey...

_They call me Troll;_

_Gnawer of the Moon,_

_Giant of the Gale-blasts,_

_Curse of the rain-hall,_

_Companion of the Sibyl,_

_Nightroaming hag,_

_Swallower of the loaf of heaven._

_What is a Troll but that?_

There was a book lying open under the bridge, a poem sprawled on one page, while the other had an illustration of a stone beast. Jim had noticed it almost immediately when he passed by that morning, stopping within the dark shadow of the underpass to paw at the pages. 

Jim crouched low, tracing the image of the beast _(troll)_ with his clawed fingers. He read the poem on the opposite side, over and over, until his eyes swam behind his glass lenses. 

Whoever drew the picture was wrong. The stone-skinned monsters _did not_ look like that. Jim growled softly, turning over the leather cover in his hands; _Magical Creatures and Secrets of the Deep_ was written on the cover in faux gold lettering, a plastic tab on the spine labeled _Property of The Arcadia Public Library._

Jim wasn’t sure how the book ended up there, but it carried the lingering scent of the stone monsters, which made him wonder why they had left it behind.

Nonetheless, Jim took it and retreated into the forest. 

Books were a rare find in his life, with the only ones he was used to seeing being the soggy, indecipherable messes of smeared ink in the dump. Some kids forgot textbooks on benches or at playgrounds, but they were the boring kind; with math and tiny letters about dull subjects. 

Jim sat down under the shade of the trees and he read; of winged monsters and scaly serpents, of unicorns and creatures seeped in shadows. It wasn’t that long of a book, just a collection of poems and illustrations, but he hung on every word. 

When he finished the final page mid-afternoon, he lingered on the back cover, tapping the fake red leather with his claws as he thought.

There was a mysterious pull, a sense of longing and loss left over after completing the text. It was said and done - _finished_ \- yet Jim wanted more.

All he had to do was find the stone-skinned monster who lost the book.

* * *

Jim’s weakness was his curiosity. He was drawn to things he probably shouldn’t be, and he had a knack for getting too close to things he should, in all honesty, be avoiding.

If Jim was asked to find a silver lining in his weakness, it would have to be that curiosity made him very observant. He was good at figuring things out, especially when it came to his surroundings. 

It wasn’t a stretch for Jim to eventually uncover where the stone-skinned monsters came from.

Jim observed them from the treeline, more often than not, moving between worlds through a gateway under the bridge. Most of the monsters were large, lumbering beasts, who he never saw more than once. They would travel from the surface to wherever the bright portal led, hauling wares or wheeling carts along with them.

The most frequent passerby was the Light-Clad One, who had a habit of patrolling near nightly. Jim guessed that it had a lot of enemies, since it seemed to always be fighting something. From the Black One to goblins to any other sharp toothed creatures that lurked in the night.

Jim also knew about the key. Every monster had one; carving gateways into cement like children with a piece of chalk - albeit glowing, magic chalk. They were made of crystal, with handles similar to that of a well-made knife. The colors were the thing that Jim liked the most about them; from blues, oranges, reds, greens, and even purple. All with a faint shudder of otherworldly light.

Jim trailed the stone-skinned monsters and mapped out their patterns to give them a wide berth. 

It was like a game. A game in which Jim stood undefeated. None of the beasts ever knew that he was following him or that he held their routines in his hands like completed puzzles.

So, it wasn’t too hard to track down the beast that left the book.

He hopped from tree to tree, tracking the figure through a thick barrier of leaves. Every few leaps, Jim would catch a glimpse of blue stone.

The monster wasn’t as threatening as the others he was used to seeing, but it was still odd in different ways. A bunch of eyes and four limbs, upright and quick. For the past few days, it had been exiting the portal religiously. Always leaving after the Light-Clad One was out of sight, and returning under an hour later. It took a route through the forest close to the town every night.

Jim never followed it long, so he didn’t know where it was going or what it was doing. 

All that Jim did know, was that the thing had peaked his curiosity, it didn’t seem as threatening as the rest of the giants, and it just happened to have something that Jim _wanted._

So Jim took the obvious course of action.

He stole it's key.

* * *

Troll lore was much more accurate than its human counterpart. 

Humans did not believe in magic or the creatures that went bump in the night. Not anymore. This meant that myth and fiction were often mixed together in incomprehensible ways, from mislabeling facts to making things up completely. 

This is why it was so hard to corroborate what humanity really _knew_ and what simply became fairytales.

Alas, Blinky had made it his mission to update his library on human knowledge, which required an in-depth study of human literature on mythical lore. It would help immensely if the Arcadia Public Library organised their stacks correctly.

And if he didn’t need to sneak around Master Kanjigar and Aaarrrgghh to access said literature…

It probably wasn’t the best idea to be going off to a human library without telling anyone what he was doing, but Blinky knew that his compatriots would stop him if they knew. No one understood the importance of knowledge like he did and how vital it was to maintain current information. He also couldn’t exactly get a library card either, so he worked on an honor system.

Blinky brought back whatever he borrowed quickly, before it could be missed for more than a day. 

_There really was no harm in it? Right?_

Blinky shook his head, sliding down the canal with his satchel of _borrowed_ books. He had only taken two that night, one mythos on magical creatures and a reference book. He was tempted to stay at the library with his own trollish text to compare notes, but he did not want to risk exposure more so than he already was.

Blinky had just begun to reach for his Horngazel, when the scraping of claws sounded out above him. 

His eyes snapped to the metal underside of the bridge, a whelp crouched on one of the supporting beams. He stared down at him through glass lenses, metal mask obscuring his face. Blinky could barely even define the child as a troll, if only for the small horns and patches of stone skin showing between the boy's… armor? 

"May I inquire as to what you are doing out here alone?" Blinky asked, unsure of what to say.

The whelp merely tilted his head, before fishing for something tucked in his belt. There was a momentary pause, right before he held out something tied to a ring of rope.

_Was that?_

Dangling from the whelp's hand, was Blinky's Horngazel.

“Where did you-” Blinky barely had time to speak before the boy melted into the shadows under the metalwork of the bridge, Horngazel around his neck like a pendant on a string necklace. "This is unacceptable, you do know Bular walks free on the surface? What would your parents think of this excursion?"

There was a flash of glass, and Blinky luckily stepped back before a shower of shards exploded at his feet. He stared at the remains of a green bottle, dregs of dried alcohol flecking the air. His eyes flickered back to the bridge-

Blinky ducked as another bottle flew over his head, shattering somewhere behind him.

"Are you throwing bottles at me? _You're throwing bottles at me!"_ Blinky followed after the whelp, the faint orange glow of crystal bobbing with the boy's movements. "How reckless, disrespectful, an affront to common sense! Have you not heard Bular's roars in the distance?" 

One more bottle - this time brown - was thrown, clipping Blinky in the shoulder. It didn't hurt, considering his stone skin, but it was still enough for him to shield his eyes from splintering glass shards.

He brushed off the shock within a second, switching to a frantic whisper as he eyed the treeline. "It would be best not to attract unnecessary attention," Blinky stressed, hands cupped over his mouth as he wove back under the cover of the overpass.

The child continued to pay him no mind, jumping down from the bridge once he reached the opposite side of the canal. He looked back at Blinky, held up the Horngazel one more time, and then bolted into the large drainage culvert in the wall of cement.

_Wonderful. Now the boy was in the pipes. The pipes that Bular liked to use to traverse Arcadia._

Blinky groaned, reluctantly racing after the whelp. 

"Would you just come back!" He shouted, voice echoing off the tunnels. 

The only response he got was a rock hurled directly at his eyes.

* * *

Jim's heart was racing. Not in the giddy way, but in the scary, unsure, fearful kind of way. Part of him was excited for adventure and the possibility of more books. 

The other part was horrified, full of terror and regret borne from _The Burning._ The stone-skinned monsters were awful, evil creatures that revelled in death and fire. Inviting one to follow him on a whim, for the promise of something that may not exist?

If there was one thing the loud monster was right about, it had to be the _reckless, against common sense_ accusation.

If things went wrong, there was no question if Jim could outrun the beast. He was at least confident in that aspect of his horrible plan.

Jim drowned out the noisy string of words the monster was directing at him, hawking a stone at its face when it continued to yell. He quickly escaped into a large drainage basin, ignoring the monster's indignant cry of pain.

A floodlight was broken in the nook, stuck on a mute red even though there was no oncoming flood. It drowned the concrete room in the color, and provided a dull source of light. There was silt in the corners, but Jim had cleaned out the leaves and muck earlier that week. A few small animal skulls were tucked in a metal box at the back of the room beside a pile of thin animal furs.

Jim hastily kicked some empty cans aside, digging under the pelts. Cool leather met his fingertips and he grabbed the spine of the book, willing himself to not grip the cover too hard and gouge it with his claws. He inspected it briefly, thankful that the furs had protected it from the dripping of the damp sewer.

"While I commend your dedication to avoiding strangers, I think throwing bottles and stones at me is a tad much."

Jim nearly seized when the monster turned the corner, huffing for breath.

"Do you have any idea how much danger we may be in?" It reiterated, advancing into the small room. One hand was still rubbing two eyes, the others gesturing wildly. "We must return to Trollmarket at once."

Jim opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wasn’t sure what to say. His mind stalled, thoughts scattered like ashes on the wind. Jim feared that if he tried to speak, only a jumble of nonsense would come out. He hadn’t said a word, not one, since _The Burning._ Since… 

Jim’s breath caught in his chest.

The stone-skinned monster’s eyes shone gold, like six flashlights in the darkness of the culvert. _He could feel smoke burning his nose, heated air licking at his skin. Slitted pupils stared at him through the chaos, hair and flesh scorching under violent flames._

“I am known as Blinky, a scholar and companion to Master Kanjigar, our Trollhunter-” 

Jim felt the book in his palms, fake leather cover crinkling from the force of his grip. 

_He couldn’t move._ Every bone in his body screamed at him, a piercing internal sound not unlike a shrill shriek from a fire alarm.

_Move._

Unaware of his plight, the monster stepped forward, holding out one hand while the others were tucked behind his back. “Now, hand it over.”

Jim automatically passed the book over to the monster, mouth dry and breath fogging up the inside of his metal mask, making it moist and feverish against his skin. He ducked his head, looking at his feet, rather than at the glowing eyes boring into him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“This is-” the monster - Blinky - cut himself off. Jim peeked up at the creature, who was handling the book, perplexed. His eyes snapped back to Jim, and he froze again.

“I was referring to the Horngazel,” Blinky said slowly, brow furrowing as he divided his attention between Jim and the book in his hands. “Did you take this from me too?”

Jim shook his head so hard, he felt his brain rattle. _I found it. I found it. I found it._ His thoughts played on repeat, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

The monster didn’t seem to mind that Jim wouldn’t elaborate further.

“Well, I guess this is a secret between you and I,” Blinky said with a tilt of his head, tapping the plastic library tab on the spine. “I was certain I had lost a book during one of my excursions, but I was unable to locate it. The Arcadia stacks will surely be missing it, though not many humans seem to be frequenting the library in these times.”

The monster rubbed his stone chin, eyes all focusing on the key still hanging from Jim’s neck.

Jim retreated a few steps until his back hit the concrete wall under the floodlight.

“Now, may I have my Horngazel as well?” Blinky asked.

Jim shook his head again, steeling whatever courage he had left. He pointed to the book in the monster’s hand - glowing eyes following his finger - and then to the satchel.

_Jim could smell blood, plastic melting into molting puddles, wooden floors hotter than the coils of a heated stovetop._

“All of this for my attention?” Blinky’s words pulled Jim from his frantic thoughts, blinking away the images flashing across his mind. The monster quickly shifted to dig into his bag, removing an ancient looking book with one hand, while another returned the leather one Jim had given him. “Scholastic pursuits are something I encourage, though this seems like a bit much.”

When Jim stepped forward to accept the book, the monster tried to grab his wrist. Jim managed a single step backward before he hit the wall again, his vision tunneling, breath shallow with panic. 

With every last bit of oxygen in his chest, Jim snarled fiercely; something like a dog’s gravelly bark escaping his throat.

The monster withdrew his hand, somewhat taken aback. While he could definitely drag Jim down to whatever depths they lived in, Blinky immediately backed off. 

“You are not going to come quietly, are you?” Blinky asked with a frustrated sigh.

Jim shook his head one more time.

Blinky didn’t seem to notice or care that he had the clear upper-hand in sheer brute strength. He just continued to speak over the silence, not minding that Jim had not added anything to the conversation. He apparently liked to hear himself talk.

“I do not know exactly _where_ you hail from, perhaps one of the thinner races of jewelers or lattice miners, but it is highly inappropriate to send someone chasing after you in the overworld. Humans could have spotted us, Bular roams the city, and the sun in itself has petrified many wise trolls, much more experienced with travel than you,” Blinky lectured pointedly.

Blinky sat down, gesturing vaguely for Jim to follow. Reluctantly, he slid down the concrete wall until he hit the cool floor, hugging his knees. 

The beast glanced at the pipe connecting the room with the rest of the spillway, opening up his book. “Bular will not be able to fit through that pipe, so we might as well remain here until your guardians turn up or until the Trollhunter’s shift comes to an end.”

Blinky said something else under his breath which Jim could barely make out, along the lines of _‘Master Kanjigar is going to be rather displeased with me.’_ followed by what clearly sounded like a curse.

“Will _A Brief Recapitulation of Troll Lore: Volume 10_ suffice?” Blinky asked, sighing again at Jim’s blank stare. He couldn’t really emote much behind his mask, but his heart did beat a little faster when the troll fingered through the pages. 

“While it is a little dull compared to the others, this addition covers beastly lore and anatomy, excluding tales of our past Trollhunters...”

* * *

Hours passed and there was no sign of the whelp's parents. Sunrise was coming soon, as well as the end of Master Kanjigar's shift. 

He had hoped that the boy’s parents would track them down before it came to that. Blinky was already mourning the end to his nightly excursions to the library and dreading the speech he was going to get from Vendel. He would never let it go either…

Say what one might about Vendel’s age, he had a mind like a steel trap.

Blinky was quiet in the little corner he had assigned himself. After reading aloud to the boy for a while, Blinky had handed over the English text he had in his satchel. 

The whelp was now reading to himself, leaning into the concrete wall under the red light and occasionally tracing the pictures in his book. At first, Blinky was skeptical of the boy's literacy in English, as he was a troll child and many adults were not even schooled in human text. He had anticipated that by giving the whelp human works, he'd get frustrated and want to go home sooner.

His parents had to be waiting in Trollmarket, most likely visitors to the Heartstone.

But the boy didn't get bored. He simply flipped through the pages, only stopping when he was unfamiliar with a particularly tricky word. At those times, he would turn the book over, tap on said word, and wait for Blinky to translate it.

He hadn't spoken or offered a name, but he would hum along when Blinky read to him. Sometimes he made low noises behind the metal mask or growled when Blinky got too close, but otherwise, he was mute. 

He didn't respond at all to trollish, which was an oddity in itself.

Blinky had an ever growing list of questions, which expanded each minute he sat in the culvert with the whelp. There wasn't much else to do but ponder the situation anyways.

There was a possibility that the boy was an orphan, who managed to evade the sun and Bular for however long he had been alone. Bular was known for ransacking caravans and butchering overworld travelers, so it was very unlikely the whelp was abandoned. Troll children were a precious commodity, and they were treasured, even more so after the war.

The whelp's scent contributed to that theory. Frankly, he smelled awful, even by troll standards. He wore a scarf of small animal pelts, which carried a heavy stink of musk. His makeshift armor was rusted and filthy, covering up whatever natural scent he may have. It was no wonder everyone passing through Arcadia had missed his presence.

Even at such a close proximity, Blinky could barely pick out any troll underneath the earthly stink of mud, sewage, and animal odors.

There was a _clap_ as the whelp snapped the book shut.

"Are you quite done?" Blinky couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice.

The boy didn't seem phased by his tone, simply sliding the book back over to Blinky. He untangled the Horngazel from his rope necklace, tossing it at Blinky's second pair of hands.

"Will you come back to Trollmarket with me? Your parents must be worried," Blinky ventured before the boy could exit the cavern.

The whelp seemed to mull over the question, looking into the tunnels. He shook his head.

"Ah, well that's a shame." It wasn't like Blinky could force him to come back. He was a scholar, not a child wrangler.

Blinky could find out who the whelp belonged to, if anyone, when he returned to Trollmarket.

He trailed the whelp back into the main waterway, heading in the opposite direction of the bridge. Blinky stared at the boy's retreating form, tempted to follow after him, but daylight was a hair's breadth away. If he didn't make haste, they would both be trapped in the drainage system until nightfall, potentially with Bular himself.

The whelp’s scent would protect him from detection if alone, but Blinky’s would draw Bular right to them if he chose to stay. An occupational hazard of being a companion to the Trollhunter.

For once, Blinky was at a loss for words. 

The sound of trickling water echoed off the walls, moisture dripping from overhead bricks. Regardless of his surroundings, all that Blinky could hear was the snapping of bones and the bloody gurgles of war. 

Blinky didn’t want to let the boy go. There was no guarantee that he would ever see him again, especially if Bular got his claws in him or if he got caught in the sun. What if he could never find him again? If he was truly an orphan just passing through, unaware of Trollmarket beneath his feet? 

_Of safety?_

“Wait!” Blinky stammered, just as the boy was about to head down a narrow spillway. The whelp did indeed pause, turning his masked face to look at him.

“Can we meet again? There are many more volumes of troll lore to explore, as well as bestiary collections, and whatever else you may find interest in,” Blinky said a little too fast. 

The whelp fidgeted a bit, glancing back at his escape route, uncomfortable with the notion.

Blinky pushed on, determined. “I promise that I harbor no ill intentions towards you. I only wish to share knowledge. I am a bookkeeper after all, so you would want for nothing subject wise,” he pushed. “I also doubt that I would run low on new material for you to read.”

The boy faced him fully, glass goggles reflecting light from an open grate above. 

For the first time in their scant hours together, he nodded.

0000000000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem at the start is from the Trollhunters novel! I thought it was fitting for this chapter. Art is of course, by the talented Melancholic_Rowen who puts up with my bull. Isn't it fantastic?
> 
> This fic is purely self indulgent at this point, because dangit, I have specific interests!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! They make me write faster ;)


	3. Fahrenheit 451

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, a lot of family and health stuff came up which put a damper on my productivity.
> 
> Also, I probably wrote and deleted about 10,000 words more for this chapter because I was so indecisive about how I wanted Jim's character.
> 
> A thanks goes out to Melancholic_Rowen, for putting up with my bull and showering me in unwavering support!

There were three categories in which Jim sorted the world: there were things he _hated,_ things he _liked,_ and whatever was left, fell into _indifference._

The list of things that Jim hated was long because he refused to do things by halves. Jim hated fire and he hated the stone-skinned monsters that took his mom away from him. He hated the burning smog of cars and the noisy streets and lonely days when the heat was stifling. If Jim disliked something - like rainy days soaked with mud or the rank smell of sewage - he simply put it into the hate category. 

Humanity, the bright lights of the city and the simple little lives people lived, were shoved into the nook of indifference. Jim had no care for their troubles or love, for he was something separate from their delicate world in a carefully crafted society.

There were few things that Jim liked. 

Jim liked food, the good kind, not the grimy messes left over in dumpsters. He liked his hunting knife, even though the metal was chipping and the steel around the hilt was rusting, and nighttime, when everything was quiet except for the ambient sounds of nature. 

Which led Jim to a dilemma, as his categories never mixed. They were solid, unequivocal rules that he had followed since _The Burning._

Jim peeked down from his tree branch, claws digging into the wood as he stared at the figure below him. 

The blue troll ( _Blinky_ , his mind supplied) sat with his back to him, though Jim knew he was listening. The troll's left ear was angled toward Jim's tree, twitching at every sound he made.

Jim _liked_ books, he _liked_ the pictures in them, and he _liked_ when the stone-skinned monster translated the foreign words for him. They were stories about heroic warriors and fearsome beasts and melancholic tales of a time long past.

But, he _hated_ the stone-skinned beasts, which left him indecisive.

Jim was childish in many ways. His rules were absolute, unbendable, and he was stubborn. He also had no time for tact or patience or frustration. When he was upset, he simply left for somewhere new. He did something productive to take his mind off of whatever made him angry, or he smashed bottles and light-bulbs from the dump until he felt better.

This wasn't something he could avoid, not unless he never wanted to hear the stories again. Jim was at a loss, mainly because he seldom wanted after something, and he wanted to read and be read to. 

Normally when he wanted something, he just got it himself, through hard work and grit. If he was hungry, he scavenged or hunted. If he wanted new armor, he scoured the landfill.

It was frustrating because his rules didn't apply to this situation. Jim couldn't just take, he had to work with someone in _their_ company and follow _their_ rules to get what _he_ wanted.

Jim eventually relented, scurrying down the tree to meet the troll like he’d been doing for nearly two weeks. He knows Blinky can hear him approaching, the sound of clattering metal from his armor is not a subtle tell.

Still, the troll makes no move to greet him directly, not until Jim opens up a nearby satchel, hovering over it with a fistful of centipedes and grasshoppers.

“I’d rather you not,” Blinky said, finally looking up from his book with a cringe.

Jim meets Blinky’s eyes and drops the insects into the satchel.

Blinky sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Blinky tolerated most things. From the obnoxious invasion of his personal space whenever Jim chose to pester him, to Jim's somewhat erratic temper tantrums whenever he remembered how much he hated trolls. Jim pulled ears or hair, shoved, and grabbed with abandon.

It would be easier if the troll screamed at Jim. Tried to pull him down to the depths of wherever the portal led. Easier if the monster proved all Jim's beliefs right. Showed him how evil they were, instead of acting courteous. Instead of acting like he cared about Jim.

No matter what Jim did, no matter how difficult, cruel and mean Jim was, the monster always came back. He never yelled. He just gave Jim that horrible disappointed stare, and at worst, ended their lessons early for the night.

Jim adapted that way. Not through emotion and compromise, but by pushing until he found the edge of the cliff. He found patterns and simply remembered how Blinky reacted to certain things; what he would tolerate and what drove him to end their lessons early.

A pound of glitter in Blinky’s satchel? _Tolerable._ Would he complain about it getting stuck to every available surface in his library when he dumped the bag out, possibly to be lodged in every crack and crevice for all eternity? _Yes._

The same went with the nastiest perfume he could find in the dump and pour over Blinky's head, a dead snake he'd thrown at his face, and all the bug-covered rocks in the forest he could secretly slip into his bag.

Over the edge were few things.

One was marker. Jim had found one left on a bench, so he'd scribbled all over Blinky's back with it. Apparently stone skin is very hard to wash, especially if your hands were also stone.

The second was the air horn. It was left at the peak after a party, so Jim swiped it, waited for Blinky to come across a particularly populated edge of the suburbs, and he set it off.

Every dog on the street started barking and various car alarms blared, and Blinky had stormed off angrier than Jim had ever saw him, canceling their lessons for the night. It stopped being funny after that.

He'd quieted down for a few nights, noticeably cowed.

“Why must you be so difficult?” Blinky finally grumbled, knowing he wouldn’t get a response. Jim simply stalks over to the troll, opening up his own ratty backpack to fish out a borrowed book.

Jim hands it over to Blinky without a word. He’d finished it the previous morning, though it took him much longer than he expected since he had to pause every other word to refer to a sheet of paper converting the trollish alphabet to English - which Blinky had enthusiastically wrote out for him. It was about some war beginning between humans and trolls, dividing a bunch of tribes or something.

Jim liked bestiaries and battle sonnets better, but he couldn’t borrow another book until he finished what Blinky had given him. Luckily, the troll came to visit him every night, so he didn’t have to wait long for new content.

“Will you give me a name tonight?” Blinky asked, removing a glowing crystal from the satchel Jim had dumped the insects in, brushing a centipede off of it.

Jim shook his head as Blinky sat it between them as a light source for their readings.

“Would you come back to Trollmarket with me tonight?” Blinky asked, bypassing the previous question.

Jim shook his head again.

“Then I suppose we will just move right into our readings,” Blinky conceded, sitting down with Jim already at his back, ready to look over shoulders and duck under arms as the troll read. 

“Though I would like to begin in chronological order, I think starting with Deya the Deliverer is ideal for your… unique interests. Maybe learning about our Trollhunters will make you more amicable to the idea of coming to Trollmarket,” Blinky said, putting Jim’s book back into a satchel and removing a large, ancient looking tome. “I will send the book back with you once we’re done with the readings tonight.”

Jim nodded mutely, excitedly bouncing on his heels when Blinky opened the book, shifting his arms so Jim could see the pictures while he read aloud.

“I will begin with an explanation of the Amulet of Daylight. Should the Trollhunter fall in battle, the amulet will call out to a new owner should they be nearby. Deya was one of many noble…”

* * *

“Did Vendel ask after me while I was gone?” 

Blinky rambled as he practically fell into the closest chair in his library. The nightly treks through Trollmarket, up the spiral staircase, past the canals, and to the forest were taking their toll on him.

“No,” yawned Aaarrrgghh, looking up from the corner he was napping in with a few slow blinks. There was still pink and silver glitter stuck in his fur from one of the whelp’s pranks. In fact, glitter particles still caught the light from the library floor from time to time.

Blinky resigned himself to having to sweep.

_Again..._

“This is going to end in disaster,” Blinky proclaimed as Aaarrrgghh tiredly came up beside him. “Master Kanjigar already thinks that I am avoiding him!”

Blinky upended one of his satchels, sending centipedes and other appendagely-blessed creatures scattering across the library table. Aaarrrgghh curiously snorted at them, further disorienting the poor insects as they flew about with his huffs.

“Use sack?” Aaarrrgghh asked, poking at a frog that somehow ended up with the insects. It croaked weakly and hopped off the edge of the table.

“I do not think I’ll be able to wrestle him into a burlap sack, my friend,” Blinky said. “Even if I enlisted your help in the matter, his claws are rather sharp, and I do not doubt that the material will be no match for them.”

Aaarrrgghh rumbled unhappily.

Blinky hated excluding his dearest friend from his excursions, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Not now. Not until he gained a little bit of trust from the whelp. He pointedly ignored the forlorn expression on Aaarrrgghh’s face.

“Now, I have to make a visit to Rotgut's about a Gaggletack,” Blinky said as stood up, brushing some grasshoppers off his legs. 

* * *

Blinky did not like keeping secrets from Master Kanjigar.

Sneaking out to a human library at night was one thing, but withholding information about an orphaned whelp? It left a hard pit of foreboding deep in his stomach.

It wasn’t like Blinky wanted to keep knowledge from Vendel and their Trollhunter - the opposite was true in all actuality. He was a scholar, an archivist, and a self-appointed information broker. If there was a conspiracy to be had, Blinky was the first to know and the first to shout it from the rooftops.

But… there was a sense of _wrong_ here that he just couldn’t pinpoint.

The moment he had returned from his first encounter with the boy, he had searched through every archive, census, and obituary in his library dating back a decade. When he cleared every death, none of which being that of travelers with a whelp, he looked to the incoming news and missing persons reports from Trollmarket. 

There were no child deaths in the past decade, and no one had reported a lost whelp. No clans were missing traveling family members who never made it to Trollmarket. Birth records even indicated that all troll children born within the past century were accounted for. 

Blinky was sure of it. He'd triple checked.

He had tried to bring Aaarrrgghh twice for assistance in convincing the whelp to come back to Trollmarket with them. Both times, he refused to show himself, so Blinky was left to try and lure him alone, while his old friend covered for him back in the archives. Hopefully, Vendel wouldn't get wise to his absence.

It added to the likelihood of the boy being a victim of Bular's wrath. _Somehow._ He was clearly frightened of larger trolls like Aaarrrgghh and Master Kanjigar, which meant that bringing them in for help could do more harm than good. They may be able to drag the boy back to Trollmarket (if they ever picked up enough of his scent to track), but at what cost? And what if they frightened him off for good in their attempt?

Blinky shook his head, hands becoming numb around his _Recapitulation of Troll Lore._

As soon as Blinky thought he had all the pieces of the puzzle, it was like someone dumped another completely different one into the mix; leaving him to try and connect the pieces. Picking through the jagged images, separating the train pieces from the bridge pieces. Trying to make something coherent.

There was another theory Blinky was working on, but he had to be absolutely positive before he shared it with anyone else.

There was an incessant tapping sound, before the grating of claws against a blackboard echoed across the peak in a shrill _screech._

"Oh, I apologize, I must have gotten lost in my thoughts," Blinky said, turning his attention back to the masked boy. 

The whelp paused in raking his talons down the small chalkboard, glass lenses glittering under the glow of a crystal Blinky had brought for light. He quickly flipped his book around, along with the slate, pointing between a trollish rune he had written in chalk to the inked text of the tome.

Blinky carefully took the slate, mindful of avoiding skin contact with the boy. During their first week of meetings, he had unthinkingly patted the boy's arm, sending him headlong into a panic attack.

The whelp had fled after, and Blinky swore that he had felt worse than when Unkar died on his first night out. To make up for the mistake, Blinky had made a gift basket of food for him, though the boy refused most of it.

Needless to say, physical contact was a definite _no,_ unless the whelp initiated it himself.

"Where were you? Ah, yes. The chapter on Stalklings is rather interesting," Blinky said, looking between the trollish words. "Are you referring to the tense? It is different from English. What you wrote here is _hunted_ as in the past tense, while what you are looking for is _hunt_ ; as in the Stalking ruthlessly _hunts_ it's victim."

The whelp nodded and took back his slate, returning to reading his book. 

If Blinky had to describe the boy with only two traits, he'd say that he was terribly clever and unbelievably difficult. The first trait was an admirable one. A thirst for knowledge that couldn't be stifled by the dull words between exciting battles. In fact, he was picking up written trollish at an expedient rate.

He was clever enough to avoid Bular, the daylight, humanity, and their very own Trollhunter. If he hadn't the curiosity to show himself to Blinky, who knew how much longer he could have stayed undetected in Arcadia.

_But…_ the difficult, impossible, stubborn, sometimes outright aggressive streak was exhausting. He was fine one moment, then the next he was throwing things or dumping things or filling Blinky’s bags with whatever substance that wouldn't directly harm books.

Thank Deya for the little blessings.

He growled and snapped and grabbed at any pliable part of Blinky's person. Refused to give Blinky any information about himself. He was difficult because he seemed to expect Blinky to follow an unwritten set of rules. Rules that no one knew but the whelp, which he had to figure out all on his own.

So, in all, there wasn’t much Blinky could do with the boy besides watching and waiting.

“Why don’t we try something again tonight?” Blinky ventured with an uncomfortable cough. The boy twists his body around to look at him, in the way that he learned unnerved Blinky. 

He was very good at picking things up like that; like a feral animal scenting fear in the air.

“I would like to ask you some questions, now that I’m sure of your literacy,” Blinky continued, trying not to twitch and startle the whelp away as he moved closer, at least three feet between them as he plopped back down with his chalkboard. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to give some answers tonight.”

There was a moment of quiet, the boy actually scrubbing away his previous notes with a cloth, before touching the chalk back down to the board. He turned his face back to Blinky, unreadable under the mask.

“Do you know where you come from?” Blinky asked, starting with an easy question to loosen the tension.

The boy tilted his head for a second, matted hair falling limply to one side. It was followed by the scratching of chalk on the board, before he turned it back over to show Blinky.

_Fire_ was written on the slate in white letters, though in English, rather than trollish.

Blinky rubbed his eyes, something he seemed to be doing way too much lately. It didn’t make sense, and it was a roadblock they’d already hit before. Days ago he had asked of the boy’s heritage, and _Fire_ was scribbled in the dirt. Whenever he asked anything it always rounded back to _Fire,_ though he outright refused to respond to questions about his name.

“Where are your guardians?”

_Fire_

“How did you get out here?”

_Fire_

“Are your parents alive?”

That one seemed to strike a chord, because suddenly the whelp was clicking the chalk down on the board hard, tapping white dots in place over his written _Fire._ His shoulders scrunch up and Blinky can tell he’s frustrated, though Blinky was getting there too. It was a redundant stalling method that was slowly sapping energy from both parties.

Each night, the same questions, the same word, no answers.

“Please, at least tell me what happened to your parents,” Blinky pleaded, watching the whelp scrub the board of chalk harder than necessary. “There may be trolls looking for you-”

The boy’s entire body stiffened at that, hand gripping the edge of his slate so hard that the wooden frame began to splinter. 

And then a burst of movement, frantic, jerky strokes of the chalk, pressed so hard against the board a shrill squealing pierced the air. Blinky leaned over since the boy didn’t seem to mind, and he saw…

_Eyes._ At least a dozen eyes drawn on the board, slit pupils dividing the oblong shapes.

The boy didn’t protest when Blinky pulled the slate out from under him, merely clutching his taloned fingers close to his chest. The gears were already turning in Blinky’s head, desperately trying to put some of the puzzle together. New pieces falling from the bottom of the metaphorical box.

Bular did not have slit pupils, nor did many troll species. A family feud brought to a head on the surface? Near impossible. Could some beast have done the deed? Maybe a Stalkling, the boy did seem to be keen on reading about them?  
_  
_

_No,_ Kanjigar would have noticed that. Humanity would have noticed that. Even curses left enough residual energy in the air to be sensed.

“I don’t understand,” was all Blinky could say, and apparently it was the _wrong_ thing to say because it sent the boy into a fit.

The whelp snatched the board back, shoving his body weight into Blinky, effectively toppling the larger troll onto his behind. Blinky had the sense not to try to get back up. The chalk snapped between the boy’s fingers, hands shaking with barely contained rage. He threw the chalk fragments in Blinky’s direction, though they didn’t get far.

“Please, explain this better so I can understand. I’m _trying_ to understand,” Blinky said helplessly, flinching as the boy roared loud enough to startle birds from a nearby tree. 

The boy didn’t explain better, only using a fragment of broken chalk to scrawl _TROLL_ on the slate, before snapping it in half when Blinky looked at him listlessly. Snapping the slate in half _over Blinky’s arm,_ to be specific.

Again, all Blinky could do was thank Deya that the boy hadn’t the cohesiveness of mind to break the board over his face.

The whelp was gone moments later, vanishing into a throng of underbrush. Their lessons were done for the night, and Blinky was still nowhere close to learning anything about the boy. He gathered up his books in silence, a small voice in the back of his head reminding him that he had not gotten to ask the boy how his readings on Deya were progressing.

Blinky also hadn't even got to praise him for writing _TROLL_ in trollish.

* * *

_Fear_ and _anger._

Those were the only emotions Jim attributed towards the stone-skinned monster in their first days together. Even now, after weeks of the troll bringing him books and babying him, Jim couldn't bring himself to feel more. Because how dare _he._ What gave the monster the right to give Jim pitying looks and treat _him_ like a helpless orphan? Pretending that everything was alright after what _they_ did to _his_ mother.

Rage bubbled up in his chest. It mixed with shame and made him feel so, _so_ sick.

Sometimes Jim thinks that he's bad, but other times, he feels justified in thinking the troll is the bad one. He remembers red hair catching like the embers of a bonfire. The glowing of eyes with slit pupils. The pain of skin melting in an unimaginable, searing, agonizing way, like wet paint dripping from walls. Things he can't get Blinky to understand.

He's crouched in a shallow riverbed, swirling the water around trapped minnows. They're dumb. Dumb like Blinky. They don't understand things either. They can't, no matter how many times those things are explained to them. The current is cold and the pebbles are hard beneath his feet. Jim's undershirt is sticking to his stone skin, making his armor chafe, and every few seconds he has to make sure the tail-ends of his scarves don't dip into the water.

"How are your readings on Deya the Deliverer going?" The troll asks from the bank.

Jim makes a noncommittal noise, closing his claws around a few fish. Watching them wiggle frantically before he lets them go. He wants to tell Blinky that he's at the part where Deya rallies her newly liberated troops after freeing them from Gunmar's human-eating clutches. 

But he _can't,_ his mind is too scattered. _Too bitter._ So he focuses on the texture clash of wet cloth rubbing against metal rubbing against skin. Of soggy pants and smooth stones and cold water.

"Will you come back to Trollmarket with me tonight?" Blinky asks.

Jim shakes his head.

He doesn’t know where Blinky’s supposed to fit in his categories anymore. It’s not the same as the people on the streets of Arcadia. When Jim looks at them, all he can feel is static - like they weren’t really _there._ He looks right through them. Jim's looked right through everyone since his mom died.

Some part of Jim wants Blinky _there_ for him. _There_ like parents are for their kids, or how groups of friends are _there_ for each other when they laugh and walk home from school. 

Jim realizes he can’t remember what his life _felt_ like before Blinky.

But right now, it _hurt._

* * *

“Deya dies at the end.”

The words were spoken from the treeline, where the whelp still stood cloaked in shadows, barely visible but for a vague outline.

What was said didn’t register in Blinky’s mind, it just didn't process. Only the fact that the whelp _spoke_ rang out through his head _._ After weeks of silence, with only Blinky filling up the quiet air between them.

_He spoke!_

“You spoke! Not that I ever doubted you! I am so excited about all the possibilities now that you can - oh, you can tell me your name now! What tribe you hail from! There is so much I have been wanting to ask you-”

“Deya dies at the end!” The words are practically shouted as the whelp steps out of the shadows and into the clearing lit by the moon. 

Blinkys mouth snaps shut and his stomach drops, almost as quickly as every trace of excitement dissolves under his stone skin. 

The whelp’s mask is gone, exposing a face with a too-human nose and eyes with glowing blue irises. The slitted, dangerous pupils of a Changeling.

It was all adding up, despite how much Blinky wanted to deny what he saw before him. Ten fingers could be brushed off on their own. Slit pupils? Talons? All traits from various troll species that could be explained away… _Individually._ But all together, with a humanlike face?

_Was the boy a Changeling defect? Abandoned to the wilderness when he came out malformed? No, Changelings weren’t that sloppy. The whelp never would have escaped the Darklands as he is. Gunmar would have..._

Blinky pursed his lips, ignoring the phantom sounds of crunching bones in his ears.

“Yes, she did. As do all Trollhunters,” Blinky finally replied, watching carefully, though his mind was racing.

_Had the Changelings found a new way to expand their ranks? They had not stolen a whelp in centuries, census takers would have noticed. Why would they risk their existing, fairly finite numbers on baseless experiments?_ Blinky can’t help it. He’s reaching into his satchel, fingers brushing the cold steel of a Gaggletack.

The whelp was giving him an utterly broken stare, near tears, the book still held close to his chest.

_Unless…_ Blinky lets go of the Gaggletack, withdrawing his hand from the bag. 

_Changelings were breeding with humans?_

The whelp walked up to him, handing the ancient tome back with a pout. Blinky pushed aside his own turmoil, clearing his throat. _There was a possibility the boy was an accident too. Left to fend for himself by his Changeling parent._ Blinky couldn’t fault the boy for it. He couldn’t _hate_ the boy for it.

“It’s not _fair,”_ the whelp said rather forcefully, voice cracking from disuse. 

He just _couldn’t._

“Life often isn’t, though I do suspect you already know that,” Blinky said, forcing himself to get back on track. The whelp’s head was lowered, but Blinky could still see his face, exposed without the mask. “Every previous Trollhunter was needed for their time. From Spar the Spiteful to Araknak the Agile. Each had a purpose, a calling to fulfill which could not be achieved by their predecessor.”

The boy grunted at that, seemingly done with talking. He crouched on the ground, poking holes in the mud with a claw. This was not how Blinky wanted their first conversation to go.

“Deya the Deliverer was called upon in a period of uncertainty. She was chosen to be a headstrong leader, who also had the courage to be compassionate in such fearful times. Confidence, thoughtfulness, patience… they were all traits of past Trollhunters; ones which were compulsory for glorious purpose,” Blinky explained, putting a hand on the boy's now quaking shoulder.

“I do not pretend to know how the amulet chooses its champion, but I like to think, it is by who is most needed in a given situation. To prosper where others could not,” Blinky ended.

That does not seem to console the whelp, he only lets out a pitiful sob, burying his face in his knees. Blinky has never known the boy to show this much emotion, usually stoic, if not somewhat aggressive in personality. 

Blinky reluctantly removes his hand from the boy’s shoulder, only for the whelp to rush forward, wrapping his arms around his middle. Blinky _freezes,_ and suddenly feels that this isn’t _just_ about Deya. He returns the hug, ignoring the stale stink of animal musk and filth under his nose. 

“It’s not fair,” the whelp repeats, head pressed into Blinky’s chest. 

Rusted armor grated against Blinky’s stone skin, nearly denting the makeshift armor’s bottle caps and bending the wire bracers from the force the boy was putting into the embrace. Like he was sure Blinky would push him away or disappear if he didn’t hold on hard enough.

Blinky didn’t blame him for thinking that. Other trolls would have. _He_ would have a few weeks earlier. There was no love lost for Changelings and there definitely wouldn't be for hybrids either.

There was a mumble, and Blinky pulled back a bit so he could hear the whelp. Matted black hair was all he could see of the boy, still ducking his head and doing his best to knock his tiny horns back into Blinky’s chest. “Pardon?”

“My name is Jim,” the whelp - no, _Jim_ \- said.

Blinky doesn’t ask him to go to Trollmarket. If he did, the boy would most certainly be killed without some kind of insurance. 

* * *

The next book Blinky gives Jim is supposed to be happier. Kanjigar the Courageous was the current Trollhunter - the Light-Clad One Jim sees wandering Arcadia frequently. He didn’t die, not yet. Not like Deya and his mom.

He may have hated the stone-skinned monsters, that wasn’t going to change any time soon, but he did not hate Blinky. 

Jim’s categories were never meant to mix, but Blinky was special. There were more important things than a few rules. Blinky was one of them. Blinky, to Jim, was like fire. Jim hated fire, but he liked to cook. Fish and meat were much better when they were not raw and bloody and full of parasites. Peppers and garden greens were better sautéed than eaten raw. Even apples were better hot with cinnamon on a cold night.

So Jim proudly put Blinky in the _like_ category, with cooking and sunrises and books. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serenagold...
> 
> I'm sorry I never replied to your comment, but you were so on point with your speculation I had no idea how to answer without spoiling! Are you a psychic? You're definitely a psychic.
> 
> Hopefully chapters should move more quickly as we enter canon events next! It's a lot easier with an outline and a lack of timeskips.
> 
> (Hmmm... Blinky did say all Trollhunters die in the end)

**Author's Note:**

> I took references for Jim's appearance from the Trollhunters Artbook, mixed with Jack's description from the novel.
> 
> Here is the reference image I used! https://66.media.tumblr.com/358d98f10cd5b7580ea13be752d18f82/tumblr_pspglcMV661ur9cua_640.jpg 
> 
> I don't know if I'll continue this, but I just had to get this idea out of my head. If I do end up writing more, it will probably revolve around Jim and Blinky, before branching out to Trollmarket.


End file.
